i have to believe that the world is so pretty for youto take a picture; to light a candle and mournfor the amber light pulsing through your eyes,under the Christmas lights and over the hazeabove the Themes—death and moisture are so humidwhen they cross the air, when they leave the skin uponGod's knees cracked. i wonder when the time will comewhen you know nothing of time—only of inspection,retrospection, intellectual makings and only things madewhich matter so very little. the silver chair in whichyou sit sings like a portrait does with thousands of words,millions of atoms compressed into a poem that only we—the keepers of metapoetics—can translate from slim volumes.the dead lay their bodies down; the living leap up like featherscaught in updrafts and thermals from the summer in the city:it was our imagination that drove this home; that framedthis photograph and made it sing with greasy guitar stringsand two cracked voices—tenor and alto, boy and girl,dead and alive. i carried you in my temporal womband waited for you to grow up, out, into.i will not pluck from overwritten gardens; i will not sobfor overunrequited love; i will not rupture with wine and saltto dry your lips, then use them to polish these poems.i vow that someday your hands will grace my neck,your hands will lie still yet moving on my chest and iwill keep my hands tied up with honor and vigor. what comesfrom crisis leaks through adverbial relative clauses—it says"goodnight" to long adjectives and irregular verbs. it all rolls downgrassy hills, past empty beer bottles through the stoneswhere our feet made little crunching noises. why o whydo i say such lovely things to you?: the one who let me sleepwithout any such answer or dilemma? i make Athenian dramawhen i lie awake mulling your words over like the smell of brandyin the glass i swirl around in my crinkled hand. kings, queens,jesters, and subjects lay down their arms, pick up their earsto listen to the court's tantrums through decadent tongue lashes:hear the one whose tired eyes seek answers; seek aliveness;seek parallelism when reading anything but Dickens: Mr. E isa mystery—Mr. C is not what i call Mr. Me. are you there God?it's me: the fool who sailed over the English Channel ona cafeteria tray. will she ever kiss the boy and breathe snowflakes?will she ever mind the poems prancing through the airwaves?will she mind when my eyes cross the street? not i nor anyone elseknows. what i know is that i must make the world so prettyso that you can take a picture and i can write a poem while walking away.

if i am alive when i wake upkeep me in the cemetary so my goosebumpsarrate the lawns—let my body dry the landas the salt from these wits dry my lips.

if a little girl shall find me, tell her iwant to be left there; tell her she can join mebut she must go home before darkand tuck herself into bed—though she maytuck me in and kiss my forehead before she leaves.

i made a bed out of leaves and a i rest my headupon four pine branches, needles and all.

tell her that my breath is enough to keep me warmand she should take one in, just so shecan feel it only once—never again.

August heat and arial moisturedrives us to the river; to jump inand drink its amber liquor—it’s a calming haze and a cigarette after.the foam shimmers, this sunlight deludesin slick industrial passage;the water’s cold.nearby the bitter dry grass and shrubsare ready to kindle; to feed the flamesbirthed from the swelter we breathe—the water reaches not so up to it.above us only rollers paint the skynot sponge dabs or brush strokesbut it’s utterly smooth:i need to see roughness to know i can rattlei need to see roughness to sooth it out with my hand.up is endlessly slick—here is jagged and brutal.

when we lie out nakedthe vittles cling to us as we roll;when we rise the desolates prick our feetwhen we stand: out blood is all the moisturethese barren morsels shall drink today.

this strip of Earth is barren,but the air surrounding us is so fertilethat even to feel it against our facesmakes our minds wander:as a swarm of sweaty palmsthe river currents rush over the riverbedquenching the eroded rocks below,and they smooth out like the skin on our backswhen tampered with. it’s all part of a vision—sacred, perhaps, in that itwhat the LORD commanded of us—where we can swim with the gushing currentand we can feel the foam pop againstour torsos and our loins.all this makes me thirsty,all this makes me know that no rivers in this buildingwhere we sit,side-by-sidehoping for a slice of air to cool us,and for, if anything at all,a way to ease the burning on our skinand on our flesh—it’s too much to handle right nowwithout a glass of wine in my handand a bottle of champagne on my head.